42

I stumbled back to my car like a drunk after getting off so lightly. The pickup trucks and the three luxury Land Cruiser V8s had set off and were heading north. Beneath the oppressive sun, I went to retrieve my backpack from my lookout post, but not much was left. The soldiers had swiped my camera, satellite phone, and binoculars. I got in the SUV and started the engine. Along the road to Gao, I passed another convoy of pickups. I’d say Kountas, based on their clothes. They were probably planning to stock up on supplies from the Boeing’s baggage hold, as the Algerian military men had before them. I wasn’t surprised. The Kountas were involved in most of the region’s large-scale trafficking—especially drugs. The Arab tribal group had thrown its support behind President Amadou Toumani Touré in his armed fight against the Tuareg Berbers. In exchange, Bamako closed it eyes. Once I was alone on the road I stopped to remove my memory card and cleaned it off. I arrived in Gao in the evening, exhausted by the ten-hour drive. Because the Malian guards hadn’t rummaged through my vehicle, I still had my cell phone. I called Kansaye. For once he picked up on the first ring.

“Solo? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Commissioner, thanks to you.”

Before I could say another word, he was shouting. I had to hold the phone away from my ear.

“What a stupid ass you are! What mess did you go and get yourself into this time?”

In the past, I had been able to calm him down fairly easily. This time, however, he wasn’t going to be quickly placated. When I sensed that his blood pressure had dropped enough, I gave him a quick rundown of what had happened. He listened attentively.

“As soon as you get to Bamako, come see me,” he said eventually, his voice sounding weary. “We shouldn’t be talking about this on the phone.”

He ended the call after I thanked him again. I parked in front of the Atlantide and was relieved that the hotel still had vacancies, despite the arrival of an Italian NGO that was supervising a well-drilling project. The transalpine volunteers had taken over the place, trumpeting through the hallways and causing a ruckus from one room to the next. Their carelessness made me wonder if the noisy toubabs knew just how much they were coveted prey in this region, where a Western hostage could be traded by al-Qaeda for hundreds of thousands of euros. I gave it no more thought and shut myself in my room without even stopping in the restaurant for something to eat. I took a quick shower, and still damp, I crawled into bed. I sank into a sweaty sleep, haunted by deafening chainsaws and gleaming machetes.

The next day, I had a quick breakfast and hit the road. I had rested up and was almost feeling good. Without a truck to track, I could give the desert’s sweeping landscape my full attention. But a troubling feeling was nagging at me. It was a splinter in my serenity. I kept seeing Rafael’s face with its quiet and persistent look of hatred as he freed me. The Spaniard had something up his sleeve, and in the days to come I would have to be vigilant. I drove all day and arrived in Mopti in the early evening. I decided to stay the night. I spent the rest of the afternoon meandering in the market on the Niger River. I slept at La Maison Rouge and got back on the road early the next morning. I drove the entire day and didn’t reach the outskirts of Bamako until that night. My phone had service again, and I saw that I had missed calls from Pierre Diawara and Milo. The Serb was asking for an update, and Pierre had an update. Although I was exhausted, I called Pierre.

“Where are you, Solo?” he said.

“I’m arriving in Bamako.”

“What were you doing?”

“Doesn’t matter. Do you have news for me?”

“Yes. My kid, Yacouba, the taxi driver.”

“I remember him.”

“He found something for you.”

“I’m coming now. Tell him to be there.”

An hour later, I parked in front of the criminal investigations unit. Pierre was smoking a cigarette on the terrace. We embraced each other in the African style—forehead to forehead. After the customary preliminaries—he asked me how I was, and I asked him the same question—he waved to Yacouba, who was waiting on a bench, his eyes glued to his cell phone.

“You have something for me, Yacouba?” I asked.

“Yes, Warakalan,” the young man said as he slipped his phone into a pocket. “I found the taxi driver, the one who drove the French woman that night. His name is Adama Samaké. He lives in Lafiabougou.”

“Excellent work. You’ve earned the compensation I promised.” I took out three ten-thousand-franc bills from my wallet and gave them to him.

He thanked me over and over and handed me a piece of paper with the address and phone number.

“I told him you wanted to speak with him. You can call him whenever you want.”

I promised Yacouba that I’d use his services again. After he left, I had a beer with Pierre and went home.